


We’re Simply Meant To Be

by BorealLights



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Consistent writing style? What’s that, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geraskier Week, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unreliable Narrator, Yennefer shows up for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorealLights/pseuds/BorealLights
Summary: Julian is nine when his soul mark appears; the head of a white wolf in front of two crossed swords, on his right shoulder. He still remembers his mother tearfully telling him to hide it, lest his father see it.Geralt is seventy one when he gets his soul mark. A songbird perched on a ring of golden flowers. It’s pretty and delicate- too delicate to belong near him, let alone on his (filthy, monstrous) hands. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time, he curses destiny.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637509
Comments: 152
Kudos: 1596





	We’re Simply Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, Day one of Geraskier Week!
> 
> I,,, I don’t have much to say that’s positive?? Uh. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Written for day 1 of Geraskier Week!

Julian is six when his older brother gets his soul mark. Their father rages and throws things, declaring that none of his bloodline will marry below their station, no matter who their soulmate is.

Julian is seven when his brother meets his soulmate, the son of a merchant. Their father still doesn’t approve, but he approves of very little.

Julian is eight when his brother and his soulmate elope together.

Julian is nine when his soul mark appears; the head of a white wolf in front of two crossed swords, on his right shoulder. He still remembers his mother tearfully telling him to hide it, lest his father see it.

Julian is ten when his parents send him to Oxenfurt for schooling. He’s been careful to hide his soul mark, and the habit continues. His classmates tease him for not yet having a soulmate.

Julian is eleven when he decides to become a bard.

Julian is twelve when he starts going by Jaskier.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t have a soul mark. He doesn’t want one, has never wanted one. The last thing he wants is someone to need him.

But as he walks away from Blaviken, Renfri’s blood still cooling on his sword, the back of his hand tingles and burns.

Geralt is seventy one when he gets his soul mark. A songbird perched on a ring of golden flowers. It’s pretty and delicate- too delicate to belong near him, let alone on his (filthy, monstrous) hands. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time, he curses destiny.

* * *

Julian is now Jaskier, and he’s eighteen. Living life on the road and performing for his dinner isn’t as glamorous as he thought it would be- he never accounted for the harsh crowds, the long days of traveling, the cold nights spent huddled by a lonely fire. But, he reflects, it could be worse. He could have gone home to his father’s rage and an arranged marriage, could have stayed in Oxenfurt; been one of those bards who only _sang_ of adventure, and never lived it. 

Posada isn’t much of a town, and the people have little regard for his musical talents… he’s so unappreciated. He scans the room as he gathers up the bread that’s been thrown (which was to be expected, that song wasn’t one of his best… or even close to it), gauging the mood of the crowd. In the far corner sits a man staring glumly down at his tankard of ale. His stark white hair contrasts with his young (but very handsome) face. He’s the only one who hasn’t made a comment, and Jaskier finds himself intrigued. His feet wander him over there before he has a chance to second guess himself- the man has armor and weapons, so clearly some sort of mercenary or soldier.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

Jaskier immediately wants to retreat when the man’s golden gaze slowly lifts from the tankard. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the smoothest line, but it was the first thing that came to his mind, and wow. His side profile did NOT do him justice, and Jaskier is a little glad that the man didn’t look up before, because right now his thought process has stumbled to a halt.

“I’m here to drink alone.”

“Good, yeah, good.” Jaskier replies absently, thoughts far away… well, actually most of them are based around the handsome man, so not that far. Forcing himself to focus, he smiles. Maybe he can draw the man into some sort of conversation? “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, so he tries again.

“Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting...” Jaskier trails off awkwardly, wincing mentally at what he just said. He had no idea where he was going, but he went with it anyway. Why did he do that? But still, nothing. Tired of standing, Jaskier sits down and leans forward, giving the man his best pleading look, eyes wide and hopefully innocent. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less!”

“They don’t exist.” Golden eyes almost roll, glancing up at the ceiling as if asking Melitele for strength. Jaskier allows himself a little internal grin- if he’s annoying the man, that means the other is paying attention to him. But what kind of review is that?

“...What don’t exist?” He doesn’t try to keep the confusion out of his voice, staring at the man. What was he talking about?

“The creatures in your song.” The man adds shortly, irritation rolling off him in waves. Now, a lesser man than Jaskier might have been intimidated, but he’s been annoying people from a young age, and the mercenary’s irritation was still well within a safe range. So Jaskier let himself roll his eyes- obviously they didn’t exist, it was called “poetic license.”

“And how would you know?” He snarked, flippantly disregarding the warning signs his brain was sending him. Something seemed off, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell _what_ exactly it was. It was only when his (albeit unwilling) conversation partner didn’t respond that he began paying closer attention. The man raised one singular eyebrow at him, and Jaskier leaned back to look at him better… Oh. This was a Witcher. Suddenly the gold eyes made sense. His brain hissed that this wasn’t just any Witcher, either.

“Oh, fun.” Jaskier forces a smile, nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach- but oddly enough not fear as he leaned back. “White hair, big old loner, two very... _very_ scary-looking swords… I know who you are.” His voice only trembled a little as the Witcher stood, reaching for his swords. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was uncomfortable- but why would a fearsome mutant be scared of a little old bard like himself? Yet apparently he was, based on how quickly he headed for the door after being identified. 

“Called it!” Jaskier calls after Geralt, watching as a timid farmer hurries after the Witcher, saying something about a demon stealing grain. For nearly a minute Jaskier sits, then finds himself following after the Witcher, the thrill of a new song idea driving him forward. By the time he gets outside, Geralt is already riding away, and he has to run to catch up.

“Need a hand? I’ve got two, one for each of the devil’s horns.” Jaskier jokes, grinning impishly as he raises his hands in fisticuffs.

“Go away.” The Witcher snaps, glaring at him. Jaskier of course ignores him, he’s as stubborn as a tick- just ask any of his old classmates from Oxenfurt. 

“I won’t be but silent back-up.” He promises, only half meaning it. Geralt’s glare gets more intense, and Jaskier holds up his hands in surrender. “Look, I heard your note. And yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them! Among other things- what is that, is that onion? Anyway, you smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak!” Jaskier finds himself waxing poetic, and maybe he gets a bit carried away. But he can’t resist when presented with such a tantalizing source of inspiration.

“It’s onion.”

Said source of inspiration apparently has no sense of adventure and romance.

“I could be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken!” Jaskier tries again. And gets a punch to the balls for his trouble. As he groans and tries to recover, it occurs to him that _maybe_ the Witcher isn’t too fond of the title of murderer… Jaskier can work with that.  
——————  
After their little… “adventure” with the elves, Jaskier trails thoughtfully after the Witcher, idly strumming his new lute. He hums out a little bit before singing it.

“Will the elf king hear what the Witcher entreats? Is history a wheel? Doomed to repeat?” The words sounded far too dreary for any decent ballad, and he grimaces. They can’t all be winners. In front of him, Geralt slows his horse until the two are walking side by side.

“This is where we part ways, bard.”

If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say that the Witcher almost sounded… regretful. Could it be that he was coming to enjoy Jaskier’s presence, just a bit? There’s an opportunity here, and he won’t let it pass him by.

“I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try.” Jaskier reminds him, and Geralt says nothing, staring straight ahead before sighing. Not a sigh of annoyance, but a sigh of resignation, as a minute difference as there is. Jaskier will count it as a victory, another song already brewing in the back of his mind.

“When the humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia… along came this song…” That sounded much better to him, and Jaskier continued to ad-lib, singing without much thought.“From when the White Wolf fought, the silver-tongued devil-” He stumbles here, both physically and over his words, but quickly recovers. He feels like a fool. The swords on his soul mark should have been a dead giveaway, and now he’s said a moniker that’s too good to pass up, and it feels like his mark is burning like a brand. Shit.

He glances at Geralt, who glares back, and Jaskier can feel warmth gathering in his gut. He goes back to singing, but his thoughts are on the man riding next to him.

Jaskier is eighteen when he meets his soulmate.

* * *

“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“...And yet here we are.”

“Hmm.”

“...No one? Even your soulmate?”

Geralt looks away, but doesn’t answer.

* * *

Geralt is ninety five when he learns Jaskier is his soulmate. Looking back, he probably should have figured it out himself. How many other people who sing like a damn bird does he know? None, and he curses himself for being so oblivious. People from all over the continent call Jaskier “The White Wolf’s Songbird,” and really, that should have been a dead giveaway, considering his soul mark.

But it wasn’t, and it isn’t until the sorceress Yennefer says something that Geralt even has a clue. Jaskier is lying still and quiet on the bed, blood caking his lips, and Geralt can feel his own heart clench as he stares down at his only friend. The scent of lilac and gooseberries overrides Jaskier’s scent of spring, and Geralt can’t help the way his nose wrinkles as the sorceress steps close.

“Not to worry, Witcher. Your little songbird... Dandelion, was it? Will be fine.” She purrs, and Geralt finds himself shifting away. Something about her rubs him the wrong way, regardless of how beautiful she is.

“Jaskier.” He corrects, almost snappishly. Why does everyone call Jaskier his? They’re only friends, and even still, Jaskier is his own person. The woman laughs, cold and clear, nothing like the warmth that spills from Jaskier’s lips.

“Dandelions, buttercups, I knew it was some sort of flower… like the ones on your soul mark… Oh! Is he your soulmate?” Yennefer teases, fingers brushing over the ring of flowers. Geralt yanks his hand away in irritation.

“He’s not my…” Geralt begins, but then her words completely register in his head, and he stops, staring wide-eyed at the mark. There’s no way he can be Jaskier’s soulmate. It wouldn’t be fair to the other, being stuck to a Witcher. But in the back of his mind, something hisses about the bird, whose eyes are just as blue as Jaskier’s, and the ring of buttercups it sits on. It hisses about destiny and fate.

Yennefer is speaking, but Geralt can’t hear her- everything is muffled, like his head is underwater. His eyes turn back to the bard, roaming over his body. An annoying feeling of contentment that he gets whenever the bard is close by curls in his chest, even if he’s unnaturally still and silent. He… he can’t think about this now. Geralt growls, cutting the sorceress off.

“Just heal him.” He snaps, his tone brokering no argument. Right now, there’s something more important than a possible soul connection for him to worry about.  
——————  
Geralt doesn’t bring up what Yennefer said once Jaskier is healed. He’s too grateful that his (and when did that happen?) bard has recovered to break the uneasy peace. At least at first. Jaskier can tell something is wrong and endlessly bothers him as they travel, but Geralt can’t be annoyed, not when each word from the man’s mouth makes that warmth in his chest _sing_. Finally it comes to a head a week later, just as they’ve finished setting up camp.

“All right Geralt, I’ve let you be gloomy long enough- what’s going on with you? You’re being more taciturn than usual, which is something I didn’t think was possible, but you’re living proof that it is.” Jaskier asks over the crackling of the fire, watching intently as Geralt skins two rabbits. Geralt should just ignore him, but… what if they are soulmates? He’d like to know that. And if they are, what then? Geralt doesn’t want to think about it, because he never wanted a soulmate, much less to travel with them, but the idea of leaving Jaskier behind makes him ache.

“...Do you have a soul mark?” He grunts, glancing up from his task. It’s interesting to see Jaskier’s face turn various shades of red, and as his mouth opens and closes a few times silently as he processes.

“Yes. On my shoulder?” He squeaks, almost like it’s a question. Odd. From what Geralt remembers, it’s quite common for humans to talk about their soul marks. He stares expectantly at Jaskier, but the bard remains silent.

“I’d like to see it.” Geralt says, noting how nervous Jaskier is getting. “...You’ve seen mine.” He tried again, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. What if both he and Yennefer were mistaken, and Jaskier _wasn’t_ Geralt’s soulmate, and it was just a coincidence? But what if he was? What then?

“...All right. But… promise you won’t leave. It, it doesn’t have to mean anything, Geralt.” Now Jaskier was the desperate one, and something dangerously like hope brewed in Geralt’s chest. He found himself nodding in agreement, his pulse pounding like he’d taken a potion. Jaskier was careful as he unlaced his doublet, slipping the silk off his right shoulder, followed by the undershirt. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the soul mark. The golden-eyed white wolf stared back, unblinking, the steel sword and silver sword behind it mirrors of the ones on his back.

“Can… can I touch it?” He asked, his voice a low rumble. Jaskier blinked once, twice, three times, slowly turning red.

“Not with rabbit blood on your hands!” Jaskier finally said, his voice trembling, though out of nerves or laughter Geralt couldn’t tell. But he was serious either way… so Geralt wiped the blood off, and Jaskier gasped. “Not on your pants, you heathen!”

Geralt grinned- that was more like the Jaskier he knew. And, just like always, he ignored the sputter of outrage. It died down as the other watched Geralt move around the fire to join him, crouching close enough to touch. Geralt didn’t _get_ nervous, but he couldn’t deny how tight his chest felt. Jaskier took a deep breath, his heart pounding. With a trembling hand, Geralt brushed the fingers of his soul marked hand along Jaskier’s shoulder to the mark, slowly relaxing when he didn’t pull away.

“...How long have you known?” He found himself murmuring, tracing the outline of the glaring wolf.

“Since I wrote your song, after the elves.” Jaskier admitted, still not pulling away. Geralt looked up, and the two locked eyes. “You?”

“Since the sorceress.”

There was silence between them as gold eyes inspected blue, and vice versa. Slowly, almost without meaning to, Geralt leaned forward, but stopped when Jaskier pulled back.

“Geralt, this doesn’t have to mean anything, nothing has to change, don’t force yourself to-“

Geralt shut him up with a gentle kiss, one that Jaskier could have easily pulled away from. Instead, the bard leaned into it, his eyes fluttering shut with a sigh. It wasn’t like the kisses he so often shared with whores- desperate and needy, or the kisses talked about in books- deep and emotional. No, it was soft and pure, more of a confirmation of feelings than anything else. Finally, Geralt pulled away to rest his forehead on Jaskier’s.

“I want it to. I want it to mean something, to change everything.” He admitted, and was rewarded with a smile.

“Then it can, and it will.”

Geralt is ninety five when he falls in love with his soulmate.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please PLEASE leave comments, it lets me know you enjoyed this ~~trash~~ fic and literally keeps me writing! A key smash is fine.
> 
> Find me on Twitter @panda_spirited
> 
> Find me on Tumblr!  
> [Regular Blog](https://howdoistormspirit.tumblr.com)  
> [Writing Blog](https://borealwrites.tumblr.com)


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